


Time Flies

by flowersforgraves



Series: hc_bingo round 8 [11]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 14:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/flowersforgraves
Summary: In which Holster cheers his team on.prompt: broken bones





	Time Flies

They’re playing the second game of the season, and Holster’s fuckin’ _pumped._ After the game, he’s going to take Ransom and March out for ice cream, and it’s going to be _swawesome._ Rans is going to get to spend time with his two favorite people in the entire universe, Holster is going to get to know his ride or die bro’s girlfriend, and March… Holster isn’t quite sure what her motivation is. And, of course, there’s going to be ice cream. Reason enough to go along.

He returns his focus to the ice. The game is tied, 2-2, and he can see the intense focus on his teammates’ faces. He isn’t going to let them down, and he doubles down on his game. As the second period draws to a close, Holster exchanges a glance with Ransom. They’re captains, and this is it. Time for them to earn their keep.

It’s a close thing. He collides with an offensive player from the other team, and they both tumble to the ground. He spreads his fingers, aiming to catch himself and then swing right back up. But that’s… not quite what happens. He falls, and the other guy falls, and he lands right exactly on his left middle finger.

Time slows down. He can actually feel the way his finger breaks, the way his pain receptors light up, and as he does he hears Ransom’s voice in his ear. _That’s impossible, Holtzy. Neurons work faster than thought. Well, exactly as fast as thought, I guess._

Holster is too distracted to think about how much his hand fuckin’ _hurts_ , which is a small blessing until he looks down five minutes later when he’s off the ice and sees how swollen it is. That’s the point where he starts focusing, and his hand starts hurting. He shakes out his hand, trying to ease the cramp from the tight grip he’d had on his stick, hoping it would help. But no such luck.

By the time he’s starting to see stars, Ransom has woven his way through the knot of Samwell players clustered around the entrance to the ice. “Holtzy!” he calls. 

Holster gives a distracted thumbs up. 

“Hey,” Ransom says, draping an arm over Holster’s shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“Hand,” Holster says. “I, uh, might’ve broken something.”

“Gimme.” Ransom’s immediately in professional mode, looking Holster up and down for other injuries like he’s a mother checking her child. “Let me see,” he insists.

Holster reluctantly offers his hand, palm down. “It’s not a big deal, I can just ice it later.”

“Nah,” Ransom says, inspecting his finger. “It’s definitely broken. Have a seat, and I’ll tell Coach what happened. You can get it looked at and I’ll bring the alcohol.”

“‘Kay,” Holster says, sitting down and starting to unlace his skates. “Go out there and kick their asses, yeah?”

“Of course,” Ransom promises.

Holster sits back, and watches his co-captain, his best bro, his ride or die, go out there and _win_. And if he doesn’t get it looked at until after he watches Samwell score, well, no one’s perfect.


End file.
